


we keep the light we're given

by notesfromthesea



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), And they were soulmates, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Strangers to Lovers, Wedding Dates, but like... not how you'd expect, richie's pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notesfromthesea/pseuds/notesfromthesea
Summary: “Wait, Richie, who’s on your right?” Bev asks from across the table. “And Mike’s left?”Richie leans to read the place card that sits neatly on the plate of the empty chair next to his. To his left is Stan, then Ben, Bev, Bill and Mike. Next to Mike, another space. Two strangers will be coming into their midst any second now. The excitement may be too much for Richie to bear.“Edward Kasp- Kaspbrak? Jeez, that’s a mouthful.”“Thank you,” a clipped voice says from behind.*or: Richie meets Eddie at a wedding he'd rather not be at and falls in love in about five minutes flat.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58





	we keep the light we're given

**Author's Note:**

> hello am back with another gratuitous story about idiots in luv
> 
> very light n fluffy with a few discussions of past trauma/mental health/bad relationships so TW for that (canon-typical myra/sonia and an OC ex-boyfriend of richie's who cheated)
> 
> title is from call it dreaming by iron & wine
> 
> enjoy!

Stan is editing a photograph of a bird that Richie _thinks_ is a warbler, but he wouldn’t be willing to bet his life on it. He could ask, but Stan gets grumpy when he forgets names that he’s been told at least twenty times before. And Grumpy Stan isn’t the one he needs right now; Richie has a favour to ask. Which is why he’s choosing now to ask it, with Stan cosy on the couch next to him, a glass of red wine poured and pretty photos aplenty. He’s just returned from a week long trip home to Maine, where he’d visited some national park — more than he had his parents by the sounds of it. Nevertheless, he’s as cheerful as he gets, so Richie seizes the moment.

“Hey, Stan?” Richie says gently, continuing to scroll through his phone. He praises himself for his nonchalance.

“Mm?”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“No.”

Richie snorts a laugh, not having expected much else.

“Stanley, darling, _please_. It’s important.”

“Fine,” Stan sighs, shutting his laptop and turning to face Richie expectantly. Richie beams. “Are you dying?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is anyone we _know_ dying?”

“Same answer.”

“Okay,” Stan says, seemingly satisfied. Richie suppresses a laugh. “Continue.”

“Okay, so, do you remember my old boss? Tony?”

“Neibolt Magazine?”

“Yes! You’re so observant,” Richie says, hand on his heart. Stan glares. “Anyway, he’s getting married.”

“Really?”

Richie grimaces. Truthfully, he’d had the same reaction. He’d only worked for the man for a little over six months, but in that the time the total of ‘normal’ conversations they’d had was pretty much zero. Tony was a decent boss, but a strange man, which is why Richie’s apprehensive to have this conversation with Stan in the first place. He knows exactly what he’ll say.

“Yep. Anyway… the thing is… will you come with me?”

“To what?”

“The wedding, dumbass.”

“You’re _invited_?” 

“Well, y’know, we kept in touch here and there-”

“You mean he sent you his creepy weekly newsletters and links to his performance art shows?”

“Well, yeah, but. In touch. Kind of,” Richie offers weakly.

“Just don’t go,” Stan says simply. Which is, of course, exactly what Richie had predicted he would say.

“The thing is,” Richie says, drawing out his syllables as much as he can get away with. Stan takes a long sip of wine and taps the side of the glass impatiently. “I already said I would. _And_ that I’d be bringing a plus one.”

Stan sighs, a deep and long-suffering sound, and gets up to pour himself some more wine in the kitchen. Apprehensive, Richie watches him pad around their living area; it’s tiny but open plan, the large windows offering impressive views of the Brooklyn skyline. Richie especially loves it now, at night, when they have the lamps down low and let the bright lights of the city filter into their apartment.

Flopping back onto the couch, Stan hands Richie a can of sprite. Richie wants to make a joke about the sheer domesticity of it, but he manages to hold himself back. He’s getting better at that these days.

“Is this because Carter will be there?” Stan asks bluntly.

“What! No? What makes you say that?” Richie splutters. “I don't even know if he’ll be there, he might've quit after I left, and who knows if— okay, yeah, it’s partly because of that.”

“I knew it.”

“Please, Stan,” Richie says, aware he’s beginning to sound desperate. “It’s bad enough that I haven’t seen these people since, y’know, the great breakdown of 2011. Add in the fuckface who broke my heart and you’ve got yourself some solid nightmare fuel.”

“Again: don’t go.”

“I want to. I actually want to see these people and prove that I’m not a complete fuck up.”

Stan’s face softens a bit even though he’s narrowing his eyes at Richie. It’s a confusing combination.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone, least of all a bunch of people you haven’t seen in years and your asshole ex-boyfriend.”

“I know,” Richie says quietly, picking at a loose thread on the blanket that covers them both. “But I want to.”

There’s a few long moments of silence before Stan throws his head onto the back of the sofa with a groan. Richie grins slowly, knowing he’s just about won. He’s not above guilt-tripping when it comes to Stan — mostly because Richie knows he sees right through it and would gladly tell Richie to fuck off if he was really pushing his luck.

“Okay, _fine_! But no PDA or ridiculous backstory. Just tell them we got together after you a little bit after you moved in,” Stan says.

“Oh, but Stanley, there’ll be questions!” Richie exclaims, standing up suddenly and pacing around the coffee table. “Best friends since childhood turned lovers, how sweet! How did it happen? Was there a confession? Did we know all along, deep down? Was there a kiss in the rain, was it shouted from the rooftop?”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

Richie continues to pace, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “Are we in love? Are we on the road to marriage? Are we going to adopt?”

“You do realise it’s more than likely that none of them will actually give a shit?”

Richie drops his hands limply at his sides. “You’re no fun.”

“Great, you can ask someone else then.”

“You are _so_ fun. I can’t wait to rock your world on the dance floor.”

“Much better,” Stan says, smiling that rare little Stan smile that makes Richie want to ruffle his hair. So he does.

The five weeks before the wedding pass with little incident; Richie goes to work and comes home and eats food with Stan and watches eighties movies and goes to bed and wakes up and goes to work. He sees a few friends, has a few interviews — not that he doesn’t enjoy his current job, writing skits and presenting for a late night radio show, but he’s hoping to move into the TV industry next. His mom claims it’s too late for a career change, but his big sister urges him to follow his instincts. She keeps insisting that one’s career options don’t suddenly disappear once you’re in your thirties, though Richie wonders whether she’s just projecting seeing as she’s nearly forty, an actress, and hasn’t booked a role in months. He appreciates the advice nonetheless.

He and Stan go suit shopping even though they both have stuff they could wear. It’s Stan’s idea, surprisingly, because they haven’t been anywhere nice in ages and they might as well treat themselves.

“Try this on,” Stan says, shoving something soft and green into Richie’s arms.

“Yes, sir— wait, what?”

“It’d suit you.”

“It’s fluffy?”

“It’s _velvet_ , you imbecile,” Stan snaps, continuing to browse the rails. Richie laughs too loudly and the woman at the counter gives them an unimpressed look.

“Velvet is a little out of my comfort zone,” Richie says, still shuddering with silent giggles.

“Anything that isn't Hawaiian print or a graphic t-shirt is out of your comfort zone, Richard.”

Richie is about to protest when Stan pulls out a deep burgundy floral jacket.

“Now what the fuck is that?”

“For me, not you, asshole.”

“Oh, thank God.”

As he’s being dragged to the dressing room, Richie reaches out and grabs a navy suit, just to be safe. He tries it on first.

“See, this is fine! I can wear a patterned shirt underneath or something to spice it up,” he protests through the wall of his cubicle.

“Show me.”

Richie shuffles out and laughs at Stan’s head protruding from the curtain that serves as a door to his own cubicle. He does a little spin, complete with finger guns and all, and Stan doesn’t even crack a smile. The man is cold as ice and Richie fucking loves it.

“Horrible. Boring. You have four just like it at home.”

“And they’re all horrible and boring too?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Fine, show me yours if you’re such a fashion expert.”

Stan steps out and Richie’s jaw actually drops. He thinks, wildly, this would be the moment in a rom-com where he would realise his true feelings for Stan if he had any. He actually feels a little sad that he doesn’t.

“Holy shit, you look hot, man! Wanna be my date for real?”

“You like it?” Stan replies, looking in the mirror and smoothing out the jacket. “There’s matching trousers, too, but I thought black would be safer.”

“No no! If I’m not allowed to be boring, you don’t either. Put on those shiny flowery trousers, wuss.”

“Only if you put on the green velvet jacket,” Stan says, smirking evilly. Richie rolls his eyes and retreats back into his changing room as Stan does the same.

Minutes later, they’re standing side by side and looking at their reflection. Richie likes the jacket, surprisingly; it fits well and he finds himself thinking that the bottle green tone suits his complexion. It’s a surprisingly nice thought to have about himself. The lapels of the jacket are black, so it goes well with black trousers, and he thinks he might just about have the confidence to pull it off.

The matching trousers, also burgundy and dark floral with threads of silver running through the design, make Stan look like a fucking model.

“Yeah, this isn’t going to work,” Richie says darkly.

“What?! It looks good on you, Rich, seriously!”

“No, not that. You as my date. No one’s gonna believe you’re with me.”

Stan rolls his eyes so hard that Richie thinks it probably hurts his head.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Should we match? Just to make it clear?”

“Absolutely not. You look great!”

“Aww, honey. Should we practice kissing, too?”

The screeches and shouts coming from the dressing room have the employee from beforehand running in to give them an official warning. Richie kindly explains that they’re ever so sorry and they’ll be out to pay shortly, all whilst having Stan in a headlock.

The dreaded day arrives cold and cloudy. Richie wonders why anyone would choose a November wedding, though he wouldn’t put it past Tony to have done this just to irritate people. He doesn’t know anything about Lisa, the fiancé, other than a name on a invitation, but they’ve got to be at least half as strange as Tony to be marrying him.

On the drive from Brooklyn to Sea Cliff, where Tony apparently lives now, Stan and Richie theorise about the day to come. Stan thinks the whole thing might well be a prank and Tony’s going to be standing alone in an empty hall and release balloons or hounds or something. Though he likes this theory, Richie reckons they’re actually going to get the complete opposite of what they’re expecting: a grand wedding with sophisticated guests and a fifteen course gourmet meal. The options really are endless.

“Who else do you think will be there that you know?” Stan asks.

“I honestly dunno,” Richie says, staring out of the passenger window. Seeing as he doesn’t drink, it’s automatically decided that he’ll be driving them home, but Stan had still grumbled about having to drive there. “Could be everyone from the office, could be none. I haven’t spoken to anyone since I left.”

He leaves out the ‘except Carter’ because, well, it goes without saying.

“Not even that really nice photographer? With the red hair?”

“Oh, Beverly?”

“That’s the one! Didn’t you say she was cool?” Stan says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the Radiohead song that plays through Richie’s aux cord.

“Yeah, she’s great. I didn’t really know her that well, though. The photographers essentially worked from home. I tried to look her up when I left but I couldn’t remember her last name. Thought it was Rogan or Romney or something but nah.”

“Romney.”

“Romney.”

“Funny,” Stan says simply and for some reason, Richie can’t stop laughing.

They stop at a gas station just outside of Sea Cliff so that they can get changed in the bathroom. It’s hilarious to Richie, the fact they go inside looking casual and (in Richie’s case) rugged, then come out in their fancy new suits. Richie leaves his bow tie hanging around his neck so that Stan can fix it for him. Stan’s opted to go tie-less, and Richie eventually persuades him to leave an extra button undone on his black dress shirt. As punishment/repayment, Richie lets Stan brush his hair back just a little. Overall, they look the part, and the sixteen year old cashier tells Richie he seems like a ‘cool dude’ whilst he’s buying a four pack of red bull, so that’s something.

It’s at least half an hour before the start time when they arrive at the venue — a reasonably-sized hotel that looks several centuries old — so Stan finds somewhere to park and they sit low in their seats, watching as guests trickle in. However, it’s not so much a trickle and more of an extremely slow dribble.

“She looks wedding-y. That’s eight,” Richie mumbles, pointing at a woman in a colourful pant suit.

“It’s quarter to two. How have we only seen _eight_ people arrive?” Stan says, sounding equal parts frustrated and fascinated.

“No, look, there’s a couple!”

“Where?”

“Ten o’clock. Two guys, tall and short, both sexy if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Dude,” Stan sighs. “They look nice enough.”

“I’m sure they’re heaven-sent angels,” Richie says, distracted by the car that’s just pulled in across from them. “Oh, fuck.”

“What? What?! Oh.”

Carter steps out of the passenger side looking like he owns every car in the parking lot and God, Richie hates him. He’s wearing a tight, sky blue suit and sunglasses even though it’s extremely overcast. From the driver’s side emerges a similarly douchey looking dude who’s expression reminds Richie of someone picking up their dog’s shit. He decides he hates him too.

“No offence,” Stan says slowly as the couple walks towards the venue. “But I have no idea what you see in him.”

“ _Saw_. Past tense. Very much past tense.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

Richie takes a deep breath. He’s ready for this, he knows he is, because seeing Carter hasn’t put a stone in his gut or made his throat close up. He’s over him and therefore he’s not there to prove anything to anyone but himself. He just wants to be able to be in a room with people that have known him as the worst version of himself and recognise that he’s _better_ now. Currently, the only person in his life that has seen him like that is Stan and his immediate family. Everyone else knows Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier, big-shot radio host and all round Fun Guy. He hasn’t always been that, and that’s okay with him. But he needs this validation in some sense, the knowledge that he’s changed and grown and that maybe people will be proud of his improvement. Richie doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

“You up for this?” Stan says softly, reading his mind as per usual.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”

They get out of the car, smooth their suits out once more, and head towards the hotel. As they walk through the door, Stan links his arm through his, and Richie beams at him.

There’s a crowd of people milling around in the lobby. More than they’d counted outside, but still less than thirty. Richie has no idea why the fuck he’s invited to this intimate affair. Carter locks eyes on him and Richie smiles tightly, then leads Stan in the opposite direction. They end up standing nearby to the guys he’d seen entering earlier on.

“He’s watching us,” Stan whispers.

“How so?” Richie straightens up Stan’s shirt collar, partly to avoid looking up at Carter, mostly hoping it pisses him off.

“Looks angry. Jealous, maybe.”

“Probably because your entire chest is out.”

“You said it wasn’t too much!”

Their whisper shouts are interrupted by the men next to them moving in closer.

“Hi,” the taller of the two says, his voice smooth and kind. Richie thinks he might be a Disney prince, actually. “I’m Mike. This is Bill.”

“Richie,” he replies, reaching out to shake hands. “And this is Stanley. Stan. Staniel?”

“Stan is fine, thank you,” Stan says curtly. “How do you guys know the happy couple?”

“Uh, we sort of don’t,” Mike says, chuckling.

“I’m publishing a book with them,” the other man, Bill, says. “But I’ve only met them over email.”

“Huh. Fiction?” Stan asks.

“Yeah. Uh, mostly horror. Self-published ’til now.”

“How do you know them?” Mike asks.

“I worked for Tony, like, seven years ago. Gotta be honest, no idea why I’m invited, but thought it might be fun to see if he’s just as insane of a man as he was back then,” Richie says.

Stan jabs him in the side and makes a shushing gesture, but Bill and Mike just laugh.

“What do you do, Mike?” Stan says, clearly trying to make sure they’re not kicked out by Tony's family (does he even have one?) before the ceremony even starts.

“I own a bookstore in Manhattan. Only just started up last year, but it’s going well so far.”

“Got any bird books?” Richie says cheerfully.

“I mean, sure. That your thing?”

“No, it’s mine,” Stan says, sighing. “I work in conservation. _His_ thing is being annoying and loud for a living.”

“Stand up comedian?” Bill asks, deadly serious, and Richie throws his head back laughing.

“God, I wish! Radio host. Late night, crude. Doesn’t seem like your sort of thing, gentlemen.”

“What, we seem like prudes?” Mike says, grinning.

“No, you seem like grown-ups.”

They chat easily for a while longer and are offered champagne by someone who Richie is _pretty_ sure was the intern when he stopped working for Tony. It’s a little unnerving.

Richie is distracted by the current conversation by two hands gripping his waist suddenly. He’s about two milliseconds away from squaring up when a little red head pops around his side.

“Hi!”

“Bev! Hey, wow, look at you!”

She’s wearing a simple tailored pantsuit in a blush colour and her fiery hair sits perfectly smooth on her shoulders. She grins at him, radiating positivity, and Richie can’t believe how happy he is to see her.

“Why the hell didn’t you contact me, asshole! I’ve been searching every crevice of the internet for you.”

“Dude, I’m sorry, I deleted my socials a while back. Not before looking for you, though! Are you also an enigma?”

“No, I’m just a Marsh now,” Bev says, waggling her empty ring finger. “You probably had my old name.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”

“Really, _really_ don’t be.”

“Oh. Congrats?”

“Thanks!” Bev says, beaming. Then she reaches back and pulls forward the man that’s been lingering in the background looking slightly awkward. “This is Ben. He joined the team right after you left.”

More introductions are made and Richie starts to believe this might actually be a lot more fun than he’d anticipated. Bev asks him a few questions about what he’s been up to, but doesn’t mention anything about his leaving, which he’s grateful for. He finds out the she’s still a photographer, only now she’s taking pictures of her own fashion designs for her website which is incredibly cool and not at all intimidating. Ben no longer works with Tony, either, but is a freelance architect and self-published poet (still not intimidated. Nope). He seems like a great guy and is looking at Bev as though she hung the stars, which is very sweet.

Richie can’t quite get the measure of the relationships here. Both pairs clearly know each other well, but whether they’re real couples or just friendly dates, he can’t tell. Ben continues to stare at Bev with unfiltered affection, but it never turns physical, whereas Bill and Mike act more like old friends than anything else. Bill does blush beet red when Mike straightens his tie for him though, so that’s interesting.

They’re eventually ushered into a different room, larger and with rows of chairs, though very little decoration. The six of them take a row towards the back left. Richie is wedged in between Stan and Bev. He puts a hand on Stan’s knee when he notices Carter glancing back at them. As soon as he looks away, Stan slaps his hand until he moves it and he has to stifle his laughter.

More people have gathered over time, but there’s still definitely less than fifty guests in total. A sort of intrigued silence seems to settle and then music fills the room.

Bev and Richie simultaneously slap a hand across their own mouths. Stan mutters a very subtle ‘what the fuck’ under his breath.

Blasting through the speakers is none other than Bad Romance by Lady Gaga.

It’s the wedding of the century, Richie decides.

The ceremony is the weirdest thing he’s ever seen in his fucking life. It’s like watching two alien imposters get hitched. The vows are nonsensical and rushed, but there’s a fifteen minute reading from a poetry book that Richie’s never heard of and suspects might be Tony's own under a pseudonym. Lisa — a short, round woman wearing an oddly traditional dress — cries all the way through. It’s sweet, Richie supposes. Would be sweeter if Tony hadn’t been grinning like a maniac the entire time, but still.

It ends suddenly and inexplicably, with the officiator declaring ‘we’re done here’ and walking off before the couple even get in their first kiss as man and wife. The claps and cheers from the guests are delayed and uncertain, so Richie stands up and whoops until people follow suit. A man in the row in front turns and glares at Richie with massive doe eyes and furrowed eyebrows. Richie winks at him, enthralled.

By some luck (or, you know, the fact they all technically know Tony through work) Richie and Stan are seated at a table with Ben, Mike, Bev and Bill. 

They sit down and immediately begin to laugh and discuss the frankly life-changing experience they’ve all had.

“Wait, Richie, who’s on your right?” Bev asks from across the table. “And Mike’s left?”

Richie leans to read the place card that sits neatly on the plate of the empty chair next to his. To his left is Stan, then Ben, Bev, Bill and Mike. Next to Mike, another space. Two strangers will be coming into their midst any second now. The excitement may be too much for Richie to bear.

“Edward Kasp- Kaspbrak? Jeez, that’s a mouthful.”

“Thank you,” a clipped voice says from behind.

Richie turns and sees none other but Mr. Glare-y Doe Eyes, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow and expectant smirk. He’s in a simple black suit, but his white shirt is open at the collar and yeah, Richie thinks he’s in love.

“Did I butcher it, Eds? I’m sorry.”

Edward’s eyes practically pop out of his head. Richie grins.

“Do _not_ call me that, Christ. It’s Eddie. This is Patty.”

By Eddie’s side is a beautiful woman, dark skin and immaculate curls, wearing a deep purple dress and a fascinator on her head. She smiles around at the table, literally glowing. Her eyes falter when she reaches Stan but she recovers quickly.

“Hi. Anyone else feel like they just had a fever dream?” she says easily and just like that, their table is complete.

Eddie sits down next to Richie, who turns in his chair to face him head on. It takes Eddie a few seconds to notice, busy listening to everyone’s introductions and shrugging off his jacket. Eventually, he glances to his left and then does a double take.

“Can I help you?” he says rudely. Richie grins even wider.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Your name. Did I mispronounce it?”

“Oh.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, somehow you got it right. Even if you did sound like a stuttering mess.”

“Excellent!” Richie says, revelling in Eddie’s expression of disbelief that he’s glossing over the blatant insult. “What do you do, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Wow, hate that,” Eddie says. “Are you going to call me by my actual name at all?”

“Nope,” Richie says, popping the ‘p’.

Another eye roll. Richie decides to aim for at least five before they finish dessert.

"And are you going to tell me _your_ name?"

"Shit, sorry. It's Richie."

Eddie looks a little bit taken aback by Richie's reaction to his own rudeness. He presses his lips together before saying, with an air of confession, “I’m a risk analyst.”

Richie coughs to hide his laugh, but clearly it doesn’t work, because Eddie looks about one second away from exploding in anger. Luckily, Stan leans in to save him.

“I’m Stan Uris,” he says, holding out a hand across Richie.

“Eddie. You’re his date?” Eddie says, sounding stilted as he nods at Richie.

“Don’t sound so disbelieving, Eds! You think I couldn’t score a hot piece like this?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Oh.” Interesting. “Well, don’t tell but he’s just a friend. A beard, if you will.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “Are you telling me he’s covering up the fact that you’re _straight_?”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything,” Stan says.

This draws a smile from Eddie, small and amused, and Richie finds himself desperately craving its reappearance, like, ASAP.

“Stan’s playing my man for the night in a valiant effort to save my from my ex.”

“I see,” Eddie says, seemingly intrigued. “Which one is he?”

Richie points surreptitiously to Carter, who’s lounging at at a table which is mercifully far away from them.

“Hmm,” Eddie says. Whatever that means.

Finding that he doesn't really want to hear Eddie's judgement on his taste in men, he diverts. 

“So, Patty, she your beard or your girlfriend?” Stan slaps his arm. “What?!”

“Uh, neither?” Eddie says. “Friend who agreed to accompany me to this nightmare-fuel event full of people I don’t know.”

“Great, because I just _know_ Stan’s in love with her already.”

“Richie!”

“Oh?” Eddie says, raising an eyebrow. “My ex was supposed to be here too actually, but…”

He looks around for a moment then shrugs and Richie grins at him in the hopes it’ll loosen the tension in his shoulders.

“A no show? Shame, we could’ve been partners in crime.”

“What?”

“Y’know, sexy singles vs evil exes?”

Eddie looks ready to deliver a biting retort but they’re interrupted by a waiter who brings a _trolley_ full of wine and oh man, past Richie of five years ago is in heaven. As it is, he sticks with his water and hands his wine glass to the waiter for good measure. He sees Eddie watching him out of the corner of his eye but merely smiles. Best not to burden the possible man of your dreams with the sobriety chat a mere ten minutes into meeting them.

Currently, Eddie is drawn in by Patty to chat to Mike about his bookshop, of which she appears to know and love. Richie watches him, fascinated. He’s seen so many layers to this strange little man in these past few minutes alone. His tanned face, spattered with freckles and frown lines, goes through about seventy expressions per minute. He’s friendly and polite with Stan, soft smiles and easy chat with Mike, then Patty makes a joke at his expense and he’s suddenly the angriest person Richie has ever seen. It’s incredible. Richie’s obsessed. He spends a happy, quiet minute watching Eddie’s strong hands and defined forearms as he explains how he knows Lisa through work.

“Please stop being a creep,” Stan says far too close to Richie’s ear.

Richie turns to face him.

“Sorry. In my defence, _look_.”

“I know,” Stan sighs. “It’s like someone designed your dream boy in a lab and sent him here just to fuck with you.”

“I’m not sure we can say ‘boy’ anymore. We’re thirty two.”

“Boring.”

“So, Patty.”

“Let’s stop gossiping about people that are right next to us,” Stan says, even though they’re very much whispering and everyone else is caught up in their own conversations.

“ _Boring_.”

Lunch is an unusual affair. It’s something like a mixture of kids party food - quiche, chicken drumsticks, sausage rolls - with a hint of fine dining (there’s actual, honest to god _caviar_ ) and Richie is thrilled by it. Stan’s vegetarian main meal consists of a plain baked potato and some greens, to which he is understandably fuming.

“Like, how hard is it to cater for no meat? I’m not asking for much here! If you can’t make good veggie food, you just can’t cook.”

“I know!” Patty chimes in. “My vegan meal is salad. Fucking salad!”

“Not even the potato?”

“What do they think potato contains?”

“Maybe they think they’re laid like eggs,” Stan says. Richie is looking back and forth between them like they’re watching a tennis game.

“I’d like to meet the bird that lays potatoes.”

“Hey, Stan,” Eddie says suddenly. “Wanna swap places? I haven’t spoken to Ben yet.”

“Sure.”

The switch happens instantaneously and Richie turns to Eddie in awe.

“You’re an evil genius.”

“Nothing evil about it. In fact, I’d say it’s very kind of me,” Eddie replies, grinning.

Eddie doesn’t end up talking to Ben much at all. 

Well, there’s some group conversation, and a lot of laughs, but overall it’s very much Eddie talking to Richie and Richie talking to Eddie. Richie does ask some genuine questions about his career, trying not to poke too much fun at how boring it sounds, especially seeing as Eddie seems pretty unenthusiastic about it himself. He knows what it’s like to have to pretend to be amused by your own downfalls.

As it turns out, Eddie is not only good looking and intelligent, but he’s also genuinely funny. He matches Richie’s insults beat for beat, sometimes one-upping him in a way that he shouldn’t find attractive but he does. In between learning about each other’s jobs and interests, they debate over the most obscurely entertaining things, such as the difference between beer and lager, or whether it’s actually bad luck to wear white to a wedding. It’s the most fun Richie’s had in months.

"So I'm in this meeting, already miserable as fuck, when this guy walks in wearing a beige suit and a grey shirt which is offensive in and of itself," Eddie rants, cheeks flushed and gin glass precarious in his flailing hands. "And my manager's like, 'this is Derron'-"

"Darren?"

"No! Fucking _Derron_ if you'll believe it."

"I most certainly will not."

"Fuck you."  
  
"Not here, Eddie baby," Richie drawls. Eddie rolls his eyes. It's like a ritual.

"Can you shut up? I'm not finished!"  
  
"Oh, sorry, I thought beige suit and grey shirt was the climax of the story about the worst person you've ever met."

"Fuck no, and if you'd allow me to actually _get_ to the climax-"  
  
"Not _here_."

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

"Can you both shut up?" Stan says, now on Richie's right rather than his left. "They're about to have their first dance."

A tinny tune plays through the questionably small speakers, but it's nice enough to watch the happy couple twirl and sway to the music. Something folky and mildly haunting but pleasant all the same.

Eddie leans forward so he can whisper in Richie's ear. "It sounds like Mii channel music."

Richie chokes on his diet coke.

There’s a few (fucking weird) speeches from the top table, but mostly the wedding guests are left to enjoy their food and their company. Neither Tony nor Lisa have moved from their seats since their dance, nor have they greeted anyone since they entered the room as newlyweds. Richie and Eddie spend an enthusiastic ten minutes theorising about why that might be, but the couple _does_ look genuinely happy, so that’s probably all there is to it. It’s a foreign concept to Richie. However, at a moment during which Eddie turns bright red from the effort of not laughing at a stupid joke of his, Richie thinks wildly that he might be beginning to understand.

What the fuck.

“Stan. Stan? _Stan_.”

“Yes, Richie?” Stan says, teeth gritted.

“Come to the bar with me.”

“We have—”

“Now, please.”

Stan mumbles an apology to Patty before following Richie to the bar. Luckily, there’s more choice of drinks here, which seems to alleviate some of the frustration of being rudely interrupted that Stan probably would’ve unleashed previously.

“What’s up?” he asks meekly, browsing the cocktail menu.

“I’m in love.”

Stan slowly raises his eyes, unimpressed and incredulous, before looking back down at the menu with an air of boredom.

“Great news. You can move out and I’ll finally have the apartment back to myself.”

“Stan! I’m serious.”

“Richie! You are not _in love_. You’ve known him for a few hours.”

Richie opens his mouth to protest, to explain the panic that’s rising inside of him over the sheer perfection of this man, when an unwelcome presence makes itself known.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here, Tozier, I must say.”

Richie sighs deeply and feels Stan tense next to him, though he barely glances up.

“Hi, Carter.”

“It’s really good of you to come, actually,” Carter powers on, obnoxious as ever. “I’m not sure I would’ve.”

“Well, I did work with him for a while, as you know,” Richie says, ignoring the direction Carter’s trying to lead the conversation in.

“Of course, but it’s bad enough to see old coworkers when you’ve left under normal circumstances, let alone-”

“Do you remember Stan?” Richie interrupts. Stan finally looks up at Carter, his smile more a grimace, and Richie watches the hand that’s resting on the bar flex into a tight fist.

“Hello,” Stan says stiffly.

“Oh, right, the roommate?” Carter says cooly. God, he is so _obvious_ in his jibes, Richie can’t believe he ever thought this man was intelligent. Or funny. Or attractive. He looks like the type of creep that would try and sell you a Ferrari when all you were after was a goddamn push bike.

“Sure,” Stan says, raising an eyebrow surreptitiously. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Oh. I thought you might just be here as a friend, for support, y’know.”

“Nope,” Richie says before Stan can rush in with a cutting retort. “Me and Stan worked things out a while ago now, didn’t we babe?”

Stan leans into Richie’s outstretched arm. “Yep. Nearly two years, right?”

“Huh,” Carter says smugly; Richie swallows his nerves. “Weird, I thought I saw you guys move away from each other at your table.”

There’s a drawn-out pause in which Richie considers the pros of punching him in the face, scooping Stan up and walking right out of there.

“Well, luckily we’re in a trusting, adult relationship where we don’t punish the other for _talking_ to someone else,” Stan snaps.

Carter scoffs. “He did more than talk and you know it.”

“Fuck you, dude,” Richie says, voice a lot less measured than he feels. “You do not get to take the moral high ground here.”

“At least I’m not using my roommate to make my ex jealous. That’s a desperate move even from you, Tozier.”

“Okay, we’re done here,” Stan all but snarls; to Richie’s surprise, he marches forward and grabs Carter by the forearm, steering him back to his table with no small amount of force. Carter flails around, clearly letting out a stream of curses in Stan’s direction. Richie watches as Stan ignores him, stony faced and downright scary, not letting go until Carter is firmly placed back in his seat. Only then does Stan start laying into him and, honestly, Richie’s glad he can’t hear what he’s saying because angry Stan is a terrifying thing to behold.

“Uh,” a voice at Richie’s elbow says. “What’s going on?”

Richie whirls round on his heel to face Eddie, glad of the distraction.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie says, indulging himself in the eye roll he receives. “Wanna take a walk?”

Eddie’s expression goes from angry to surprised in milliseconds, his furrowed eyebrows shooting into his hairline. He smiles a bit, biting his cheek like he’s trying to stop himself.

“Sure. Let me just get a drink.”

“I’ll get it. What d’ya want?”

“Richie, it’s an open bar.”

“And? Let me look like a gentleman, c’mon, I need the ego boost,” Richie grins at him, already turning to lean on the bar and catch the eye of the very bored-looking girl working behind it.

Eddie lets himself smile this time, small and shyer than anything he’s seen from him previously.

“Fine. I’ll have, uh, gin. With lemonade.”

The bartender sidles over.

“Gin and lemonade for the Spaghetti man. Double? Double,” Richie says without waiting for Eddie to choke out a reply over his indignant sputters.

“I heard him the first time,” the girl says coldly. Richie smiles at her even wider.

“ _Spaghetti man_?” Eddie whisper-shouts. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Oh, come on! It makes you sound like a funky little superhero.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Rich-iculous.”

“That’s fucking terrible.”

“You sound like my Twitter followers.”

“Is that meant to be, like, a humble brag? Because it doesn’t really work if you’re admitting your followers are mean to you,” Eddie says, faster than light, barely glancing at the drink Richie hands to him.

“They’re mean to me because they like me.”

Eddie scoffs. “What are they, fifth graders?”

“God, I hope not. My show is strictly eighteen plus.”

“ _Your_ show,” Eddie mutters under his breath incredulously before plucking a straw from the container on the side and taking a long sip of his gin.

“Those are bad for the turtles you know.”

Eddie’s nose scrunches up (cute, cute cute). “I _know_. I forgot my metal one.”

“You have a metal straw?”

“I have a multipack.”

Stan reappears looking flushed and in need of a drink; Richie quickly presses the cocktail he ordered for him into his hands.

“How did you know which one I wanted?”

“I know you too well, my dear.”

Eddie glances between them then down at his drink, looking decidedly out of place.

“He won’t be a problem anymore,” Stan says, oblivious, nodding back towards Carter.

“My knight in shining armour! Hey, Eds, you need Stan to talk to your evil ex? He’s quite the intimidating figure when he wants to be.”

Eddie looks up again, awkwardness chased away by a particularly aggressive roll of the eyes.

“She’s not _evil_.”

“Oh.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence that’s saved - as seems to be the theme of the day - by Stan.

“You guys ready to get on the dance floor, or…?”

“We were actually, uh. Thinking of taking a walk,” Richie stutters.

“I’m just gonna run to the bathroom. Here, hold this,” Eddie says, thrusting his drink back into Richie’s hand. “Meet me outside.”

Richie turns to Stan helplessly.

“Okay, if _I_ talked to you like that you’d be calling me a bunny boiler,” he snaps.

“He’s straight.”

“What?”

“His ex is a woman,” Richie sighs.

Stan fixes him with a glare that somehow manages to find the balance between terrifying and incredulous.

“Are you fucking broken?”

“A bit.”

“Would you not date someone who’s bisexual?”

“What- Stan! Obviously I would.”

“Then shut up and go on your romantic little walk. He’s not straight until he says so.”

Richie blinks at him dumbly.

“He has a multipack of reusable straws,” he says, just in case it’s relevant.

“Okay, Richard.”

“Thanks for beating Carter up.”

“I didn’t- Jesus, just _go_.”

Richie finds Eddie lingering on the front steps of the building. When he spots Richie, Eddie smiles and does an awkward little wave. Richie’s heart does an awkward little skip.

“M’lady,” Richie says, offering his arm.

“Fuck off.” Eddie punches him in the arm and storms out towards the grounds of the venue. Richie follows, cackling.

“Woah, I didn’t imagine those little legs could go at such speed.”

“Oh, fuck you, I’m not that small.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“I’m not! The average American man is, like, five foot nine.”

“And you’re anything but below average.”

Eddie throws a glance in his direction; sizing him up, Richie thinks. They’ve fallen into step now, both of their hands tucked into their pockets, walking close together enough that it’s noticeable but far away enough to be socially acceptable.

“Well, I _am_ five nine,” Eddie says. “So perfectly average, thank you very much. Not all of us were fortunate enough to reach the six foot mark.”

“Been taking my measurements when I wasn’t looking, Eds?”

Eddie’s mouth twists into a smile. “Something like that.”

Their pace slows as they chat idly and wander the grounds; nothing special, but pleasant all the same. There’s a gravel pathway that leads them between bushes and shrubs, all devoid of flowers due to the season. It’s something of a maze, some statues and fountains scattered around in the small open spaces that the paths lead to. The light is starting to fade but the distant glow from the building casts a gentle warmth onto the scene. Not literally, of course - it’s fucking freezing.

A fact Richie doesn’t notice until Eddie shivers mid-sentence (something about the flu rates in the city in winter that Richie lost track of along the way) then proceeds to look up at Richie defiantly.

“What?” Richie blurts out.

“Nothing I- I just sensed a joke coming about the fact I’m cold. Not enough body mass, something like that.”

“Dude, what?” Richie laughs. “I’m shivering as much as you. More, even.”

“Right.”

“Like, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I’m just straight up _mean_ , but…”

He trails off, not really having anything else to say but feeling as though he should. They’ve stopped now, leaning against a stone wall that looks old enough that it might crack under their weight. Eddie has his arms folded over his chest defensively, or for warmth, Richie can’t tell. He’s staring straight ahead at a particularly sad looking hedge, glaring at it like it has something to prove.

“I’m just sensitive.”

“About your height?”

“No, asshole!” Eddie says but he laughs again and Richie feels a wave of relief far too strong for the situation. “I just- I don’t like it when people treat me like I’m breakable, y’know?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Richie grins. Eddie finally looks back at him and returns the smile before ducking his head to his chest. “I mean, I do. In the context of… myself. I mean, shit, have you not noticed the looks half the people here have been giving me?”

He’d pretended not to notice at first - the unsubtle double takes, the soft smiles, the murmurs between old colleagues - but it was stupid to pretend it wasn’t happening, especially with Stan giving them death glares every few minutes. His presence hadn’t gone unnoticed by his ex-coworkers, just most of them had the good grace not to make _quite_ as much of a scene as Carter had.

“I did wonder about that,” Eddie admits. “The people you used to work with?”

“Mhm.”

“They don’t like you?”

“Oh, I dunno. Don’t care, really. None of them knew me well. Not even Bev.” Richie laughs humourlessly. “Not even Carter, actually.”

“Right,” Eddie says, nodding even though he can’t possibly understand. “Then why the looks?”

Richie takes a moment to look at him - his face a mixture of warm lighting and shadowy lines, looking back at Richie with earnest eyes and the smallest of smiles. Richie doesn’t know how or why, but he trusts him in a way he doesn’t trust a lot of people. Somehow, he knows that this man that he’s known for all of four hours won’t judge him.

“I left under unusual circumstances,” Richie says slowly, not breaking eye contact for once. “I, uh, had a pretty rough time. I was already struggling with my… identity, I guess? A dead-end job and a boyfriend that treated me like shit, boo hoo, blah blah blah.”

“Richie,” Eddie says gently, but scolding, elbowing him softly.

“Yeah, well. Anyway, the thing is. No one at work knew about me and Carter. And no one knew I was gay. I wasn’t hiding it, exactly, just didn’t go around shouting about it. But maybe I should’ve because one day I’m making my coffee in the break room and this girl comes in - Ellie, I think? Shit, I can’t even remember. Anyway, not important, uh. Where was I?”

Eddie uncrosses his arms and one hand flinches towards Richie, then drops back down again in a way that should be subtle but isn’t when Richie’s watching his every move. Eddie winces, then makes his expression neutral.

“You’re making coffee.”

“Oh, right. So, this girl is nice enough, someone I chat with sometimes, a bit of an over-sharer. And she comes in looking like hell so I’m all, ‘late night?’ and she’s like ‘long weekend’, smiling and winking and. Well. I’m nosy, dunno if you could tell, so I ask her who the lucky guy is. And she says ‘don’t tell anyone, I can’t be dealing with the paperwork, but it’s someone that works here’.”

“Wait…” Eddie says, putting the pieces together.

“Yep. I push her for a bit, she makes me swear not to tell, etcetera etcetera. Then she drops the bomb that her and Carter have been at it for weeks.”

“Fucking asshole!”

“Yep.”

“So, what? You confronted him and everyone saw?”

“Oh, fuck no. Not yet. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“What?” Eddie asks, voice all high pitched in his apparent shock.

“Yeah, dude, this is the sad part. I was so fucking embarrassed that I went back to my desk, did my day’s work, went home, went to Carter’s apartment, had dinner with him, _slept_ with him, then went to work the next day aaaand, repeat.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“For how long?!”

Richie grimaces. “Two months.”

“ _Bro_.”

“I’m so sorry, did you just call me ‘bro’?”

“Richie.”

“Like, for real? No irony? That’s something you say?”

“You are not changing the subject right now,” Eddie snaps, grinning. Richie stares. How the fuck can one person express so many conflicting emotions at once time?

“Okay, fine. But I’m doing the short version of the story, now, I’ve been talking for way too long. For two months I don’t say shit, not even to Stan, going about my life as if I never heard this particular tidbit of information. And I succeed in avoiding Ellie until one day she corners me to ask what I’m up to that weekend because her and Carter are having a little get-together at their apartment.”

“Their fucking _what_?”

“Right. Anyway, next bit is pretty dire. I grab her and march her to Carter’s office, demand that he explains to both of us what the fuck’s going on. The shouting starts, Ellie’s crying, Melanie from HR is running around like a headless chicken. I- uh. I tore his desk apart, pretty much. Police were called. Everyone got off with a caution, but at this point I’m just having a full on mental breakdown and Stan shows up like a dad picking up his naughty kid from school.”

“Your hero,” Eddie says.

“Hah. Yeah.”

“Rich, that’s… so fucked up I don’t even know where to begin.”

“It was pretty dramatic,” Richie says, nodding slowly and staring at the same bush Eddie had been so fixated on earlier. He’s beginning to see why, actually. The lights from the venue reflect on the leaves, looking like little fireflies. It’s darker, now, and colder too. Richie pushes his hands further into his pockets.

“What happened after?”

“Oh. I took some time off, moved in with Stan, went to therapy. Very much third-act-of-the-movie type stuff.”

“And Carter…?”

Richie scoffs. “Kept his job, somehow, despite having fucked two of the staff he was meant to be managing. I heard that Tony tried to fire him but his business partner refused, so. Now I’m here. Cheers Tony.”

Richie lifts his glass of water to the sky which makes Eddie laugh and suddenly some of the tension he felt knotting in his stomach is released. He hasn’t talked about this with someone new in a while and it’s weirdly cathartic. Sometimes it’s good to remind himself that objectively, this situation fucking sucked. It’s far too easy to convince himself that Stan and Sue, his therapist, are only on his side because they have to be.

“It’s weird, but the worst part for me is that Carter came over to explain himself and he- he said he did it because he knew I was fucking Bev.”

“You were fucking Bev?”

“Absolutely not. We were work friends at best, bless her. But he found us taking a smoke break together once and apparently from then onwards he _knew_.”

“Does he still think that?”

“Seems like it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Richie, I- I mean, I’m sorry that happened to you and I’m glad you’re okay now and, well. Jeez, you deserve so much better. But…”

“ _But_?!”

“But why are you telling me this?” Eddie says, breathless and rushing through the words. “You hardly know me.”

Richie meets his gaze with a level look and smiles gently. He bumps their shoulders together, watching as it makes Eddie blush before he takes a sip of his fancy gin through his stupid plastic straw. Richie decides to honour him with the truth.

“I like you, man. I feel like I know you well enough.”

Eddie almost chokes on his drink. Richie reaches forward to pat his back and then leaves it there for a second before trailing it down, resting it against the stone wall. Almost imperceptibly, Eddie shifts back so he’s leaning slightly into Richie’s open arm.

“Yeah. Um. I feel like that, too.”

“Good,” Richie grins. “I’m sorry I unloaded on you there, maybe a bit much for meeting numero uno. You got any deep dark secrets you wanna bombard me with?”

Eddie smiles, though it’s a little strained. “Maybe next time.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Next time?”

“Mhm. _Maybe_. The maybe is important.”

“Well,” Richie says, clearing his throat. “I suppose if there’s _maybe_ going to be a next time, then I could _maybe_ get your number?”

The way Eddie flushes is visible even in the near-darkness. “I suppose so.”

Richie hands him his phone and watches as Eddie taps in his contact details. The screen lights up the parts of his face that were previously engulfed by shadow; Richie doesn’t even feel bad as he lets his eyes trace the shape of his jaw, his nose, his mouth as it twists in concentration. He thinks maybe he’ll let himself have this, for now.

“There,” Eddie says, slipping Richie’s phone into his jacket pocket. Eddie's hand touches Richie's hip for a millisecond through three layers of fabric. Richie’s heart pounds. “And look, I have to warn you that if you’re one of those people who texts with ten different emojis per message I simply will not fucking reply, alright?”

Richie salutes him, giggling helplessly. “Yes, sir. I’ll even use capital letters for you, Eds.”

Eddie scrunches up his nose. “Ew, no, I’m not an animal.”

When their laughter subsides and silence falls again, Richie looks at Eddie, who’s looking at him, and thinks well. This is probably a moment, right? A capital m Moment, even. Because Eddie’s definitely shifted even closer, pressing his back into Richie’s arm, his own hand now resting behind _Richie’s_ back so that they’re woven together like thread. It would be so easy to pull Eddie in, to let himself have this moment where he kisses the guy in the scenic walled garden in the low light and freezing cold. To walk back inside, drunk off of Eddie alone, to spend the rest of the evening sharing quiet whispers and private jokes. Maybe they could dance. Maybe they could kiss again.

But it turns out Richie’s used up every ounce of his bravery tonight.

“We should head back in,” he says instead. “Before Stan sends out a search party.”

“Oh, okay,” Eddie says. He pushes off of the wall suddenly and takes a few steps backwards towards the building. “Yeah, let’s go. I- wanna check on Patty anyway.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Cool, bro.”

“ _Stop_.”

There's a few moments of silence as they walk back at an unnecessarily slow pace. It's a silence that's not entirely uncomfortable, but very different from their dynamic thus far. It's peaceful, settled, knowing. Richie has to break it or he might do something mildly insane like suggest they get the fuck out of there.

"So... the ex?"

"Mhm?"

"Not evil but not all that nice?"

"What makes you say that?" Eddie says defensively.

"Just that you brought Patty," Richie shrugs. "Kinda echoes my flawless diversion method."

"Oh," Eddie lets out a deep breath. "Well, yeah, she's fine. Just a little bit..."

"Psycho? Insane? Bonkers?"

"Dude, no. She was just a bit obsessive."

Richie makes an expression that very much reads 'duh'. "So... psycho."

"I tend to reserve that word for more extreme cases," Eddie snaps and Richie takes that as an invitation to stop pushing his luck.

"Well, I'm glad she didn't show."

"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Neither of us did a great job of looking like we were on a date."

They reach the bottom of the stone steps that lead back into the foyer and Eddie stops with one foot up. Richie halts as well, spinning around and finding Eddie a lot closer than he'd expected.

"I think we did okay," Eddie says softly.

"Uh- hm," is Richie's eloquent response.

Eddie grins, then winks, then runs up the steps and strides into the hall. Through the wide-open doors, Richie can just about make out Stan and their new friends on the dance floor. He walks slowly into the building, watching as Stan spins Patty around, then turns and laughs at Bev and Ben's enthusiastic arm-waving. Suddenly, Eddie is beside them, and Patty pulls him into her. They whisper to each other for a moment before turning to where Richie's still standing by the door like an idiot. Stan leans in to say something to Eddie and then he's looking in Richie's direction too. He breaks into a smile and gestures Richie inside; he finally obliges, eyes on Eddie as he does a ridiculous shimmy on his way to the dance floor. Eddie rolls his eyes, laughing, but his gaze stays fixed on Richie. And that's about it, really. Richie realises he'd do anything to keep those eyes on him.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know if you enjoyed this, i love hearing feedback!! chapter 2 will be idk when and it'll also be a bit of a slower burn than you might expect from this chapter ;-)


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